fate
by faces sunward
Summary: flowers can still bloom in winter. — cyrus, dawn


**a/n;;** old fic. originally written for the '09 winter fanfic contest at bulbagarden.

* * *

For the first time in more than eight years, it is snowing in Sunyshore. The small, wet flakes, more like sleet than anything, melt away as soon as they hit the ground, turning the streets into pits of treacherous slush. But it's snow all the same, and no one is going to waste a moment of it.

Among the many people that stroll through the city on this day, stepping cautiously around slick patches of ice, bundled in jackets they've hardly ever worn, only one of them is not smiling and laughing.

Cyrus does not enjoy the holiday season. He isn't the festive type, really. Too many people, too much noise, too many brightly colored baubles and expensive gifts and overindulgent consumerism. The holidays encompass everything he despises about humanity and wraps it up neatly into the span of a few miserable weeks.

Cyrus greatly prefers winter with no sparkling adornments. He appreciates the plainness of the season – the harsh, clean air that prickles the skin, the brittle crunch of dead things beneath his feet, the endless slate grey of the sky. (If he had his own world, he thinks, one where the laws of nature would submit to his iron will, it would **always** be winter.)

He keeps his head down as he walks through the city, and no one pays him any mind. Or perhaps they simply prefer to overlook him, pretending he's not really there. He's old for his age, you see, in more ways than one. Upon glancing at him, taking in his gaunt complexion and empty, sunken eyes, one would think him to be far older than sixteen.

But appearances, as Cyrus knows all too well, can be deceiving.

He leans against the railing and gazes out at the choppy, white-capped ocean. The waves are the same color as the sky today, and the two bleed together on the horizon like a pale grey watercolor. Snow drifts down and lands gently in the water, vanishing into nothingness.

"Hi," a small voice says from somewhere to his left. "What's your name?"

He glances down to see a little girl, no more than four or five years old, peering up at him with inquisitive eyes. She's wearing a fluffy pink coat, matching boots, and a pair of fuzzy earmuffs, and her dark hair falls past her shoulders. Her cheeks are flushed a bright pink from the bitter, biting cold.

"… Cyrus," he says, wondering absently where the girl's parents might be.

"My name is Dawn," she says proudly, and then tilts her head to the side. "Are you sad, Cy-rus?"

"Sad?" He ponders this for a moment. "No, I am not."

He's only sixteen, yes, but it's been many long years since he last felt sadness. He's already forgotten what it's like. To have emotions, that is. They seem alien to him, all those hesitant smiles and furtive glances, like a language he once knew but has forgotten.

"Are you mad, then?" Dawn asks.

"No."

"Then why are you all by yourself?"

Her question gives Cyrus pause. "I suppose," he finally says, "that I simply prefer being alone."

Dawn doesn't get the subtle hint, but why would she? She's just a child, after all. Instead, she nods along with his words as if she understands perfectly.

"Sometimes Barry asks me if I want to go to our secret fort but I don't want to, so I go play by myself instead." Her face is solemn as the grave as she tells him this. "But then I get bored by myself, so I tell Pearl that I'm sorry and he forgives me, 'cause we're best friends, I think."

Cyrus blinks. "I see," he says, though really he doesn't.

"I don't think that anyone should be alone for a long time," Dawn says. Suddenly, her dark eyes go wide. "Have you been along for a long time, Cy-rus?"

It's strange, he thinks, how children can be the most perceptive of all. One innocent comment and he's back in the past, a place where he would rather not tread. He remembers his parents' disapproving expressions (never good enough, not for them), his classmates' cruel taunts (words hurt, once upon a time), his grandfather telling him to stop his foolish crying (because the world is a harsh place, no room for the weak). He remembers the whir of beautiful machines, like music to his ears, and all the lovely silences he has encountered in his lifetime.

"Yes," he says quietly. "I've been alone for a very long time."

Dawn appears to be in deep thought.

"Wait right here!" she exclaims and scurries away through the crowd, weaving expertly between shoppers and sightseers. Cyrus stares after her for a moment, then turns back to the roiling grey ocean with a slight shake of his head. He's never liked kids much, with their uncanny way of pointing out the obvious, but there's something about this girl that's strangely… cute.

A few minutes later he feels a tug on the hem of his jacket. Dawn is beaming up at him once more, her smile wide and innocent.

"Here, Cy-rus," she says, holding up something for him to take. "A present for you!"

It's a flower. It looks like a lily, with waxy white petals that curve delicately outward and fragile, curlicue'd stamens. Cyrus takes it from Dawn with almost reverent hands, as if he expects it to crumble away into dust at any moment.

"Where did you find this?" he murmurs, twirling the flower gently between his fingers.

"The glass houses in Eterna City," Dawn says, looking immensely pleased with herself. "Mommy bought a bunch to give to grandma. Don't worry, though. I don't think grandma will mind if I give you one."

Flowers do not grow in Sunyshore. It's too rocky and sandy and bare, devoid of any life-giving earth for flowers to stretch their roots into. Some choose to grow flowers in boxes beneath their windowsills, but it's winter now. All the flowers have wilted away.

Cyrus has not seen anything as lovely as this lily for many long months.

"Do you like it?" Dawn asks, nearly bouncing up and down in excitement.

"… Yes, I do. Thank you." He wills himself to smile, but the smile withers and dies before it can reach his lips.

"Dawn!" a voice exclaims. "Where in the world have you been!"

The voice belongs to a young woman with chin-length blue-black hair, wearing a long coat and an expression of both worry and relief. One of her hands is perched angrily on her hip, and the other is clutching a bouquet of white lilies.

"You should know better than to just run off in a crowded place, sweetie," the woman scolds, walking over and taking the girl's hand. "I get anxious when you disappear like that. Now… Have you been bothering this poor boy?"

"This is Cy-rus, Mommy," Dawn says. "He was all alone, so I gave him a flower to cheer him up!"

"It's alright, ma'am," Cyrus assures her, his voice as monotone as ever. "She wasn't bothering me at all." His gaze slides back down to the smiling little girl. "Thank you again for the flower, Dawn. It's beautiful."

"You're welcome!" Dawn exclaims. She glances up at her mother questioningly, wondering if this is what she's supposed to say, and her mother nods wearily.

"Come on, sweetie, let's go visit grandma. We don't want to keep her waiting…"

As she is dragged away by her mother, Dawn waves frantically and shouts a goodbye. Cyrus raises a hesitant hand in recognition and watches until the girl's pink earmuffs vanish into the crowd. He turns back to the flower then, and stares, entranced, at the soft sheen of its white petals.

When he returns home (to an empty house, of course), he places the lily in a decorative vase next to his bed. Each day he watches it, and each day he sees its proud head droop lower and lower until its petals begin to wither and fade away.

In winter, Cyrus thinks, everything must die.

.

.

He's not sure why he's come to Eterna City on this snowy evening. All he knows is that there's something in the back of his mind – a misplaced memory, perhaps – that's telling him to pay the place a visit.

The snow here is different from the snow in Sunyshore. It floats down gently from the grey sky, twirling on air currents, settling on every available surface. It's the kind of snow that gets caught in your eyelashes – the kind of snow that swathes the world's ugliness in pristine white.

As he passes by Eterna's famed greenhouses, he stops. There is a certain warm glow that seems to emanate from the glass buildings, and he peers inside curiously at the rows and rows of green foliage and paint-speckled flowers.

Cyrus is not sure what prompts him to step inside the greenhouse and purchase a single white lily. That indescribable _something_ is in the back of his mind, telling him that it is the right thing to do, and Cyrus trusts his instincts.

He arrives at the ancient statue of Dialga with the flower tucked into his front pocket. If only his subordinates could see him now – Cyrus, the mastermind behind Team Galactic, adorned with fanciful flora. He almost smiles at the idea of it. (Almost.)

There is a teenage girl sitting on a bench near the statue, bundled in a warm pink coat. A knitted white hat is pulled down over her long, dark hair. She looks extremely cold, her hands pale and shaking and her cheeks red and raw, but she appears enraptured by the magnificent statue before her. There is something about her that is strikingly familiar…

Cyrus puts two and two together in a sudden flash of understanding. The time of year, the flower, the girl… It's all the same as that fateful day in had to have been ten, maybe eleven years ago, but he still clings to the memory with surprising clarity. What had the girl's name been? Dawn? Yes, that's it…

"Pardon me," he says quietly, approaching her and gesturing to the seat beside her. "May I sit here?"

"Hmm?" She glances up at him, startled from her winter-induced trance. "Oh… Yes, yes, of course."

"Thank you."

The girl and the Galactic Boss sit together in silence, appreciating the peaceful glow of the streetlamps upon the freshly fallen snow. The plaza is empty save for them, but the sounds of ringing bells and a child's laughter echo from far away.

"Glorious, isn't it?" Cyrus asks, shattering the calm quiet. He gestures towards the statue of Dialga. "You know, it is said that this legendary Pokémon once controlled the very flow of time."

Dawn is wide-eyed. "Really?" she murmurs. "That's incredible! What happened to it?"

"Some believe that its great power was too much for it to handle, and it was overtaken by darkness. But others believe that it is still out there, preventing the powers of time from destroying our world."

"And what do you believe?"

She is staring at him curiously with that dark gaze of hers, and suddenly he's sixteen years old again – just a foolish, lonely boy dreaming of a blameless world. He does not answer her question. Instead, he withdraws the white lily from his pocket and holds it out for her to take.

"A present for you," he says simply.

As she takes the flower from his hand, holding it delicately (just like he did all those years ago), her expression quickly changes to one of astonishment.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" she murmurs. "You seem so familiar, but I just can't place my finger on it…"

"My name is Cyrus," he replies. "And you are Dawn, if I am not mistaken. We met once, many years ago in Sunyshore. You were only a child then – you would not remember."

She ponders this for a moment, and then her face brightens.

"Actually, I do remember you! We were in Sunyshore visiting my grandmother, and I…" She glances back and forth between Cyrus and the lily. "And I gave you a flower just like this one."

"Yes."

"You seemed so lonely then," Dawn muses aloud. "I couldn't help but stop and talk with you. That's just how I was back then – I couldn't stand to see anyone in distress."

He is not sure what to say to this. Is there anything **to** say? They simply sink back into silence, letting it settle on their shoulders like snowflakes. Dawn is studying the flower, tracing its soft petals with her fingers, and in turn Cyrus is studying her. High above, Dialga's imposing visage stares down at them, judging them like some kind of omnipotent deity.

"It's amazing," Dawn says quietly, "how flowers can bloom even in winter. All they need is someone to give them a helping hand." She turns to him and smiles softly. "Don't you think it's wonderful, Cyrus?"

And just like that, his heart of ice begins to break.

.

They meet again at the Spear Pillar, where ancient columns jut from the ground like forgotten swords on a battlefield. She's stopped her futile struggling, but Jupiter and Mars still have her in a tight grip (just in case). Her angry, pleading eyes meet his, and in an instant he is taken back to that fateful day in Sunyshore when a little girl handed him a flower.

And as Cyrus remembers this, he does something that he hasn't done in many years' time.

He hesitates.


End file.
